


Dessert Storm

by DemiPalladium



Series: Sounds of London [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ...this is probably gonna read like a train wreck, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Meet Differently, Animal hybrids, Catlock, Cats, Fluff, For H.I.A.T.U.Story's April challenge on Tumblr, Gen, John Watson is a Good Doctor, Kittens, M/M, Mentions of Florist!John, My First AO3 Post, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Synaesthesia, Synaesthete!John, Was sleepdrunk when I finished it so yeah, and a bit of a vet sometimes as well, cat!Sherlock, go check them out on tumblr they're awesome, it's been like 2 years since I've written a fanfic...yikes, minor casefic, the government works differently because why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemiPalladium/pseuds/DemiPalladium
Summary: (No, that's NOT a typo! I do mean "desserts" as in "sweets" :D)The rain was a slight drizzle on that day, spring-driven clouds weeping at the edges between swaths of uncharacteristic blue. Blooming green, verdant, telling tales of sky and soil, it was the only type of rain that could be happy instead of dreary, really, and it would make good environs for a short story.John is in London after being discharged from the army. He has his pension, part-time work at a florist’s, and has been assigned to his secondary job, writer, until he can take up locum doctor work again. Things are looking up. Really.--------Please note: synaesthesia is a benign brain condition in which two or more senses are mixed up--i.e., one may hear tastes or feel numbers (the most common form is grapheme-color synaesthesia). John has general sound-color synaesthesia--he hears colors. Synaesthesia is a fascinating condition and I highly encourage the reader to research it, but a PhD in synaesthesia is not necessary to enjoy this fic!For hiatustory's April challenge, Different First Meeting! https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/





	Dessert Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! As you can tell by the tags, this is not only unbeta'd and unbritpick'd, this is also my first work in the Sherlock fandom and my return to full-length fic from a long hiatus. This is probably gonna read like a train wreck but I hope that it's at least an interesting train wreck I guess?

The rain was a slight drizzle on that day, spring-driven clouds weeping at the edges between swaths of uncharacteristic blue. Slurring together London’s usual shades of industrial grey with flashes of multicolor light, giving the city outside a slight matte, watercolor feel. Aggregating droplets on umbrellas, lenses, windows, newly-unfurled leaves, sluicing down the topsoil of the city’s grime. Blooming green, verdant, telling tales of sky and soil, it was the only type of rain that could be happy instead of dreary, really, and it would make good environs for a short story.

John hummed to himself, sipping on a steaming cuppa in his kitchenette, staring at the street through a rain-slicked pane of glass. It was April, so he’d just gotten his word count for the next 18 months: 80k - with at least 30k being in the genres of romance/fantasy. A couple of novelettes (7,500 to 17,500 words) would be a good warm-up.

 _‘Lovers in the rain’ is rather in-vogue, isn’t it?_ he thought, trying to smile. Along with part-time work at the florist’s, it shouldn’t be too hard of a goal, he decided. At least until he could take up locum work as a doctor again. Things were looking up.

John gripped his mug tighter. _Things are looking up,_ he commanded himself to acknowledge. _Ella is right. The work should help me ‘transition back into civilian life’._

Speaking of Ella, this was the type of thing he should blog about, probably. Him waxing poetic about the sound of rain might amuse her.

Gritting himself, John pushed away varying medical debris on his small wood kitchen table with a steel _scrape_ and opened his computer, logged in with the hateful ice-blue key clacks permeating the pitiful bedsit.

~~

Fifteen minutes later, John stared over the top of his laptop at the array of potted plants lined up single file on his windowsill _(like toddlers in reception behind a teacher, like an execution by firing squad),_ the blank page of his useless blog taunting him.

An ambulance roared past, neon orange in warning _(somewhere on the streets outside through the fresh green rain)_ , followed in close tandem by the off-purple wavering alarms of cop cars.

About thirty seconds afterwards, a storm made of creme brulee pounded on his door with a bright red bang. Truly, it was the only way to describe the man who barged into his bedsit with the manners of a wild animal.

The intruder stood tall, pose immaculate and proud even when hunched with his arms gathered tightly to his underarm, pale skin enrobed in dark clouds of heavy clothing. A...deerstalker?--( _Who wears those anymore?_ ) sat tight on his head of inky curls, damp from the drizzle outside.

“John Watson,” the man heaved in a cream tenor, standing in his doorway, swallowing mouthfuls of air, and his voice punctuated with...meows? “Recently honourably discharged from the army with a psychosomatic limp. The Crown has assigned you to your secondary job--writer--until you can take up doctoring again in an official manner.”

John stared as the man walked-- _swanned, more like,_ he thought--towards his kitchen table through the “living” room, warm purple steps tracking mud through the carpet and echoing on the tile.

“You run a small streetside clinic for the homeless in your spare time with the extra funds you get from your assigned part-time job--something botanical,” he continued, abuzz with the nervous energy of a hurricane, “judging from the amount of greenery in here.” He nodded his head at the plants lining the sill.

The man produced a scarf from under the folds of his coat and placed a scarf-wrapped bundle of damp kittens on the table. He turned his intense gaze on John.

 _Amazing,_ John thought, the sheer force of presence of this man vice-gripping his mind. 

“These kittens’ mother, a half by the name of Julie, was found today in an alleyway,” the man’s words rushed out of his mouth, a gushing fountain of dark brown chocolate. “She was attacked by a group of teenagers who found abusing the _Homo sapiens felidae_ amusing, stabbed repeatedly and doused with gasoline. She is currently on her way to the nearest A &E, but the police, dumb as they are, didn't bother checking for kits. Their mother was half and their father is unknown, presumably a stray.”

The doctor in him saw his guest’s request for medical assistance immediately, snapping him out of his daze. “Do you know if they're injured?” He grabbed a pair of latex gloves from one of the several boxes on the table.

“No,” the man responded him, motioning at the pile of mewling tortoiseshell-and-white fur. “Their mother--”

“--Julie, has no known allergies.” John completed _(four kittens, he was wondering how she did after he helped her deliver)_ , picking up one kitten and giving it a clinical look-over, feeling for the odd cut or bruise. “She was a regular here after she got pregnant.”

A rumble of yellow-gold _(the colour of those macarons in the display sill of the bakery next door to the florist's)_ pleased surprise from the man reached his ears.

 _That’s nice, now look at the damn cat,_ he admonished himself. _No cuts, no bruises, paws and legs intact, no nicks or flea dirt on the ear, no ticks, good weight, squirming up a storm._ Although he was by no means a veterinarian, all doctors received at least a precursory education in common half-animal biology. _(Putting all the years of med school to work never failed to lift his spirits, because what was a doctor without patients?)_

Satisfied with the state the first kitten was in, John gave it a thorough drying before giving it back to the man. “Do they need their Cayther reflexes checked?”

The rain started to fade from spring green to emerald moss outside.

The man made an off-white affirmative noise in his throat as his pupils dilated. He accepted the offered kitten, holding it as if it could break at any moment _(it could, it could still)_ , as if he’d never held one before _(overly wary)_. “Yes.”

“Okay,” John nodded, picking up the second kitten and meeting his guest’s multifaceted stare. “There's a kitchen scale right over there,” he quirked his head at the metal object, “and there should be a suitable blanket in the living room that you tracked mud all over. Could you please bring them here?”

The man blinked, startling out of whatever stupor he was in, and went to grab the objects while keeping the rose-mewling kit close to his chest.

Not as wriggly as the first kitten, the second was done within minutes. “Do you know anything else about them?” John inquired, checking the third kitten for fleas.

Outside, the rain fell swifter still, falling from green to a two-toned sludge yellow.

“Yes,” the stranger set the kitchen scale on the table. “They're twenty days old. Oriental shorthairs. The second kitten you examined,” he picked the dry bundle up from its place on the table, “is the only male, the rest are female. Obviously. They--” the stranger stopped for a split second and tucked the second and third kitten into his grip, cleared his throat, then fluttered off to fetch the throw on John’s chair.

“Got it.” Amused, John's eyes narrowed at the ancient deerstalker on the stranger’s midnight curls. “By the way, mate,” he called out, feeling cheeky, “you need a better hat.”

Growling cacao, the man scowled. He returned to the kitchenette and ripped the offending hat off his curled head, throwing it on the floor with as much force he could muster, arms full of kittens.

“I _told_ Geoffrey it didn't do anything,” he seethed through his teeth, red hot. Vivid red, a dark sanguine, mixed with thick vanilla cream--

 _Not now,_ John commanded himself. _(Later, he could wax poetic about the stranger’s voice later.)_

“Can you smell anything on them?”

The man’s jet black, curly-furred ears twitched and his thin mouth lilted downward. “No,” he grumbled, “they all seem in good health. They don’t smell like they’ve ever switched forms, but that’s not uncommon for their age.”

Lashing with pent-up agitation, the stranger’s tail whipped out of the cover of his coat.

Was it darker in the room, or was it just him?

“Okay,” looking over the three kittens in the man’s arms (and the one on his shoulder), John plucked what he was reasonably sure was the first one he examined by the scruff of her neck.

“Now,” he held the kitten in his right hand and put his left underneath her belly, “since their mother was a Half and their father is probably a stray, the chances that these are also Halves is pretty slim, but not unreasonable.”

John used his left hand to feel around the throat of the kitten, found the spot just above where the neck and shoulders joined, and pinched.

The kitten let out a navy, distressed wail, struggled in his grip, but didn’t change.

After five stress-charged minutes passed, the doctor silently handed the flailing kitten to the stranger and the stranger, gazing intensely at him, passed him another kitten to check.

As John pinched the throat of the fourth kitten and found no reaction, he realized something.

“What’s your name?”

“Hmm?” Responded the tall _(he hadn’t noticed how tall until now)_ stranger, who was trying to balance three kittens and a phone while texting.

“What’s your name?”

The man looked up from his screen and stared at him. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“How did you know all those things about me?” John was genuinely curious as he shifted over the final kitten.

Sherlock froze, tail stiffening up, ramrod straight.

“I am a consulting detective who works with Scotland Yard,” he stated without inflection and without meeting John’s eyes, taking the kitten. “Deducing you was simple, really.”

Not offering any further clarification, the half-cat half-human turned his attention back to his phone, continuing to text as four balls of fur wormed in his arms.

“Well, it was amazing. Can you do that to everyone? Just look at them and see their life stories?”

This time Sherlock looked up and met his gaze, befuddled. “That’s...not what people usually say, and yes, I can do it to anyone,” he confirmed, clearing his throat.

“Well, what do they usually say?” Asked John. _(Finally, something's happening to me!)_

Sherlock let out a self-depreciating laugh the colour of bread mold. “Piss off,” he grinned weakly, attempting to joke.

The doctor didn’t have long to reflect on the statement as a violent violet _BANG_ of thunder cracked outside.

Startled, Sherlock twitched, head snapping over to stare at the rain through the window _(the saying “raining cats and dogs” had never made so much sense)_ and his ears flattened against his skull, an extended canine showing through just the barest hint of a snarl.

“You’re welcome to stay for the time being,” the doctor took a particularly adventurous kitten from Sherlock’s upper arm replaced it with his hand. With a few tugs, he managed to coax the kitten-covered consulting detective down to his couch in the living room. “I’ll go put the kettle on, sound good?”

When John returned to the living room, he found Sherlock lying on his back and draped with kittens, snoring away with a deep rich cream purr rumbling from his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> *Cayther’s reflex, also known as the shifter’s reflex, is an instinctual, involuntary shifting between forms that was first discovered by its namesake, Willa Cayther. This happens when a young animal with the potential to shift feels threatened by a full-human and assumes its human form in an attempt to appease its aggressor. The reflex diminishes with age until sexual maturity is reached, at which point it is no longer active. It may take up to five minutes to fully activate.
> 
> ((Named after my favorite poet, Willa Cather XD))


End file.
